School daze - Meiko and me

As Dad climbed the executive ladder at the DWP, Mom’s wardrobe and jewelry collection grew alongside his success. With each promotion came more invitations to political, community, and social events. Dad’s rise to the top wasn’t fueled by an ambition for wealth or power—he didn’t even seek the position. He was simply a brilliant, well-educated man with an obsessive work ethic, making him the natural choice for the role of General Manager and Chief Engineer.

For Dad, attending social dinners and civic events was just part of the job. And back then, it was also expected that Mom would accompany him—a silent partner to his success. But for her, these events were torture - endless worries about what to wear, how to act, what to say. By the time Dad reached the pinnacle of his career, Mom was buying a new gown for every event.

Dad couldn’t understand why she needed so many dresses, but he rarely complained about it. Their bickering over her shopping was minimal because he knew how much he was asking of her. Still, shopping, which at one time was a joyful act for Mom, became more about obligation. So, she enlisted her sister Betty to take over the task. Auntie Betty would often arrive with a selection of dresses: black velvet, red silk, metallic silver, florals, brocades. I always looked forward to those impromptu fashion shows. For Mom, who was a busy professional in her own right, looking the part of the executive’s wife was both a duty and a privilege she took seriously.

Yet, despite all her efforts, Mom always felt like an outsider. Night after night, she sat quietly and elegantly by Dad’s side, feeling lesser than the polished, educated wives around her. If only she had a college education. If only she understood the cultural nuances of high society. If only she could speak with confidence and grace. She tried to compensate by looking the part with her Chanel, Pierre Cardin, pearls and diamonds, but it never felt like enough.

Her sense of inadequacy was rooted in a deep, unspoken pain. The relocation camps, the years working in a cannery, and the alienation she endured in her most formative years weighed heavily on her. Before the war, Mom had been a rising star, a singer and dancer—the adored middle child of ten siblings, doted on by her older sisters and admired by the younger ones. But those glory days were cut short because of the war, leaving her with wounds she carried her whole life.

Mom’s greatest wish was to shield me, her precious daughter, from the sting of exclusion and insecurity that she endured night after night. Her determination to protect me became a driving force in her life, though it also instilled in me a heightened awareness of those very feelings she sought to spare me from.

It was at one of those high-society dinners where Mom first heard about Marlborough School, an exclusive all-girls academy nestled in the Hancock Park area of Los Angeles. The moment she learned it was elite and offered a middle school program, she knew this was where I needed to go. To her, Marlborough represented the key to my future—a chance to receive an education that would allow me to move effortlessly through high society in a way she never could.

Dad, ever the humble civic and community leader, had a deep-rooted preference for supporting public schools. But he couldn’t deny Mom’s insistence. Beneath her determination, he sensed her unspoken fears—a burning desire to shield me from the feelings of inadequacy that haunted her. In the end, he gave in.

Once Mom set her sights on Marlborough, she became singularly focused. Phone calls consumed her days, her voice buzzing with excitement and urgency. There were hoops to jump through, letters of recommendation to coordinate, and endless references to confirm. She reached out to friends, acquaintances, even distant connections through Dad’s colleagues. Each call was an exercise in vulnerability, each request a small sacrifice of her pride.

After the whirlwind of arrangements and awkward conversations, Mom finally broke the news to me. “Honey, you’re going to Marlborough School next year,” she said, beaming with pride.

I knew of Marlborough through my friend Julie Franklin. Her older sister Suzie already attended, and I’d heard all about the Olympic-sized swimming pool and tennis courts. To a seventh grader, that sounded incredibly glamorous. By this point, I was no stranger to changing schools. By the time I reached 7th grade, I had already switched schools five times—each move driven by Mom’s relentless quest for the “next best thing” for me. Another change seemed inevitable, almost routine. But this time, I felt a spark of excitement. A swimming pool that size? That was something to look forward to.

Mom was so proud. She worked tirelessly to make this happen, and she wanted the world to know it. She talked about it to anyone who would listen—her friends on the phone, the ladies at the department store check-out counter. “My daughter’s going to Marlborough,” she’d say, her voice swelling with satisfaction. “The same school as the daughters of dignitaries and celebrities.”

At first, her enthusiasm made me feel special, but over time, it began to grate on me. The endless bragging felt less like a celebration of my future and more like a badge of honor for her. The pride she carried wasn’t about me—it was about her own validation. At least that’s how it felt to me. And though I loved her, I resented the way her triumph overshadowed the insignificant role I played in this accomplishment.

I was twelve, about to start 7th grade. That summer before my first year at Marlborough, preparations consumed us. Mom and I made countless trips to Bullocks Wilshire, the renowned art deco department store on Wilshire Boulevard. This was where the girls of Marlborough bought their uniforms, and Mom wanted every detail to be perfect.

We picked out the essentials: the classic gray skirt and white blouse, the navy vest, and the matching navy blue sweater. We even found the perfect pair of black-and-white leather oxfords. I adored those shoes and took immense pride in keeping them polished. The two-tone white with the black wrap across the laces was striking, but polishing them took skill. I quickly learned the trick: always polish the black first and buff it out before applying the white, so any smudges could be covered up later.

We returned to Bullocks several more times to buy the starch-white and pastel dresses in Easter pink and yellow, each one part of the uniform guidelines. Of course, we had them custom-hemmed to exactly 1 ½ inches above my knee, just as the dress code required. By the end of the summer, my wardrobe was pristine and perfectly tailored. I was excited for my first day of school, eager to wear my bright pink dress and polished Oxfords, hopeful for what was to come.

It didn’t take long for my excitement to fade. From the first week, I realized I was completely out of my depth. I didn’t belong. The signs were everywhere: not being invited to DeeDee’s big birthday bash, the side-eyes I caught in the hallways, and the way I seemed to be the go-to scapegoat whenever there was something out of line in class. I felt the sting of rejection deeply, but I never wanted Mom to know how out of place and alone I felt. She worked so hard to get me here, and I couldn’t bear to disappoint her.

But I quickly learned that Marlborough had its own unspoken rules—rules that were impossible for an outsider like me to grasp beforehand. For instance, the cool girls never wore brand-new, crisp dresses like the ones I wore. Wearing a brand-new dress was a glaring signal that you didn’t belong. And of course, all I had were brand-new clothes, pressed and perfect in multiples.

The girls who truly fit in—Whitney McFadden, Jaime DelaChapelle, Deanna Shay, Joanna Thompson, Jodi Fairbanks—they didn’t wear bright Easter yellow or pink dresses with sharp pleats and starched collars. Their uniforms told a different story: soft, faded dresses with rounded collars, flowing in muted tones of lavender, mauve, and ivory. Their skirts fell well below their knees, exuding an effortless elegance. These weren’t just uniforms; they were heirlooms, passed down from sisters, cousins, aunts, and mothers who had attended Marlborough before them. The vintage look was a badge of belonging, a silent but powerful symbol of their privilege and history.

The campus itself was stunning—a dream to anyone who felt they deserved to be there. Tennis courts, an Olympic-sized swimming pool, a state-of-the-art gymnastics facility, even vocal coaches. It was a school where the famous and the powerful sent their daughters: Ahmanson, Nixon, Disney, Kennedy. Every detail of Marlborough whispered exclusivity and legacy.

For a confident, ambitious 12-year-old, Marlborough would have been a dream. For me, it was hell.

I was just me, navigating these intense years with little guidance or perspective. I stood out in ways I couldn’t do anything about. I was one of only a handful of ethnic minorities in a class of about 100 girls. In 1975, I didn’t know how to fit in.

There was Melanie Jordan, a soft-spoken Black student. Word spread quickly that she was a scholarship student who rode the bus from Watts each morning just for the privilege of attending Marlborough. It was whispered with pity or disdain, but never kindness. I believed it at first. Why wouldn’t I? The story seemed to explain her reserved demeanor and the way she kept to herself. But it wasn’t true. Melanie’s father was a city councilman, a man who knew my father well. She lived in the Mid-Wilshire area, just ten minutes from school. Yet Melanie never corrected the rumor. Maybe she didn’t care, or maybe she understood that challenging the narrative wouldn’t matter anyway. We were friendly, Melanie and I—not quite friends but something close. We recognized ourselves in each other, two outsiders trying not to be noticed too much.

Then there was Annabel Siu, a gifted concert pianist and the daughter of our upper school math teacher, Dr. Paul Siu. Her family had immigrated from Hong Kong when Annabel was young, and her precise British English carried the faint, melodic undertone of Cantonese. Physically, Annabel was awkward—tall and gangly with an untamed shock of black hair—but when she sat at the piano, she became luminous. She introduced me to Chopin and Debussy, even Erik Satie, whose haunting simplicity left me breathless. But Annabel’s brilliance didn’t endear her to others. Instead, her cockiness pushed people away. She wielded her sharp wit like a shield, deflecting any attempts to get too close. I admired her audacity, even envied it.

And then there was Meiko Takasugi, the daughter of Japan’s Consul General. Marlborough was her first American school, and she tackled it with unrelenting enthusiasm. Meiko’s English, though fluent, was halting and peppered with exaggerated gestures. She approached every new experience as an adventure. She never hesitated to interrupt a conversation or offer her enthusiasm by asking questions, often out of context. The quintessential all-American girls fascinated her. She thought nothing of reaching out to touch their “beautiful rong brond hair” or exclaim to a tall girl about her “rong regs” and “striking blue eyes.” She was proud of her heritage, eager to share it, bowing deeply and often.

But I heard the talk behind her back: She’s so nosy… she’s like a puppy dog… why does she always have to bow? The more attention she drew, the more I cringed. I didn’t want to be like her. I didn’t want to remind people that I was Japanese, too. I avoided her at all costs, even as I knew it was only a matter of time before she approached me directly. I could sense her trying to catch my attention, giving slight nods at me from afar.

One afternoon, I was rushing to my locker when I spotted her sitting cross-legged in the hallway, a group of girls surrounding her. She was folding a dollar bill into a perfect, delicate crane, the girls watching in awe. I grabbed my book and pretended not to notice, but her voice rang out, bright and cheerful.

“Tamaki-chan, come rook!”

Every head turned toward me. I slammed my locker shut and hurried away, pretending I hadn’t heard her.

The next morning, she was waiting for me at the front gate. I saw her before she saw me, and my stomach sank. Then she waved and ran toward me, her arms flailing with excitement.

“Tamaki-chan! Tamaki-chan!” she called, her voice echoing across the lawn.

I froze. I wanted to turn around and walk the other way, but it was too late. She reached me, bowing repeatedly, her words spilling out in a flurry.

“Harro, Tamaki-chan! Hajimemashite! I’m so grad to finary meet with you. I saw you yesterday at the rocker, but you were in big hurdy. My oto-chan knows your oto-chan. Did you know? Segoi-ne?”

I looked around and muttered under my breath, “Please stop bowing.”

She laughed, mistaking my discomfort for humor. “You and me are rike the same! We can be frends! You come to my house after school, ne? Itadakimasu!”

Her voice was high and giggly, almost cartoonish. She reached out and grabbed my arm, beaming. I wanted to pull away, to disappear.

Everyone was watching. I could feel their eyes on us, hear the whispers. Just days ago, Julie Franklin, my old friend from sixth grade, ignored me in the hallway, and now this.

I couldn’t take it. I yanked my arm back and stepped away.

Flush with humiliation, I stepped back and said loud, for everyone to hear, “I don’t want to be your friend. You’re… so weird!”

Her smile faltered. Hurt flickered in her eyes, and she took a step back. I didn’t wait for her to respond. I walked away, my heart pounding, shame burning my cheeks.

The hurt in her eyes will haunt me forever.

Today, Marlborough is a different school. It prides itself on diversity and inclusion. I could have been a trailblazer, but instead, I contributed to the culture of exclusion. I didn’t realize then that my mother’s ambitions for me, her relentless pursuit of status and class, were born from her own fears of rejection. She wanted so desperately for me to belong. But I never told her how much I didn’t. How alone I felt and how ashamed I was of myself.

This was the start of another story of Mom and me. The one that led to our lifetime of misunderstandings, deceptions, and silence.